After Hours
by Ameliorably
Summary: A short one-shot (That now has a sequel), set early to mid season 3. H/M: "He calls out to her "Hey Hot Lips." She whips around to face him, her now let-down hair whorling around her "Don't call me that!" she barks sharply. Her eyes narrow as he walks over and sits down next to her. "Did you come in here just to annoy me?"


It's 12am. They've just finished 24 hours of surgery but he's too tired to sleep. The camp is silent, everyone else has long collapsed, but he just can't. He makes his way to the Officer's Club and opens the door. He's surprised to see his favourite blonde nemesis sitting at the bar with her back to the door, apparently having helped herself to a bottle from behind the bar. He calls out to her "Hey Hot Lips"

She whips around to face him, her now let-down hair creating a whorl around her "Don't call me that!" she barks sharply. Her eyes narrow as he walks over and sits down next to her. "Did you come in here just to annoy me?"

"Oh come on, don't flatter yourself. I'm here for a drink, same as you. Pass me that bottle."

She begrudgingly hands it to him and he pours himself a drink. She holds her glass out and he pours her a belt which she downs in one go.

"Whoa, easy now, Margaret."

"Why do you care?"

"I'd hate to see such a magnificent body go to waste." He says it knowing it will wind her up. Her reactions create a map, sort of like sonar. He jibes, she reacts, and it builds a picture. It works, venom shooting from her glare. She hasn't left, though, which means this misery wants company, and she also hasn't told him off, which means her defences are lower than he'd first thought. He'd started out doing this as annoying the annoyance, then knowing thy enemy, and now it was more to watch her change in minute increments; every now and then she'd reveal something new.

He gives her a wide smile and she frowns at him, pursing her lips slightly.

"So, what are we drinking to?" He asks, curious as to why she's ended up here and not asleep in bed, or off participating in "extracurricular activities" with Frank. He takes a large sip.

"I'm just tired."

"But that's what sleeping is for." He teases.

"Well why are you here then?" She all but demands.

"I'm tired too." He says quietly

She looks at him squarely, clearly surprised that they've managed to find anything in common. He notices her scrunch up her face slightly and wrinkle her nose almost imperceptibly, obviously starting to feel the effects of the alcohol she's already knocked back. So quietly he has to lean in to hear her she utters "I'm tired of this war." She's given up on her now empty glass and takes a swig from the bottle, "I'm tired of people thinking that because I hold myself to a certain standard that I have no feelings." Hawkeye's emptied his glass too by now and holds it out for more, Margaret wordlessly tips more amber liquid into his glass and continues talking, "And most of all," she says, voice rising in volume, slurring slightly now, "I'm tired of Frank using me as his object of convenience."

"You're better than old Ferret Face, Margaret."

She sneers disdainfully, "I know I am. That snivelling, lipless wonder."

"Then why are you with him?" he's genuinely curious.

"Well, because nobody else knows that; and besides, he's the only other person who cares about the rules." She states with a slightly swaying confidence.

"I know that."

"You?" Incredulous doesn't begin to cover her tone. "You don't know me." Hawkeye knocks back the second half of his glass in one hit and is starting to feel the effects. The drunken oblivion Margaret is heading for is an appealing place. "Not as well as I'd like to."

Her first response is to sort of squint at him, face screwed up a bit. He's not sure if it's supposed to be a glare or something else, but as the whiskey haze descends upon him, care is thrown to the wind along with most of his caution.

"Whydyouflirtwithmee?"she demands slurringly, frowning as she realises just how poorly she's just articulated her words.

"Because you're beautiful."

"What? No I'm not!" but she's blushing

"Yeah you are!"

"Oh stop!" she giggles

He continues "...and you're brave, and smart, and talented, and…"

"Hey Hawkeye?" She drawls

"Mmm?"

"Kiss me"

"Okay" he says brightly, and wetly covers her mouth with his own.

"Mmm, more." she mumbles before he can move away.

He's more than happy to oblige and stands and pulls her so she's pressed flush against his body before kissing her passionately. Her mouth is open to him before he has to do anything to ask for it. They're kissing like their lives depend on it, all tongues and wandering hands. He feels her moan into his mouth and involuntarily follows with one of his own. His fingers tangle in her now mussed up hair, and they nearly fall over when Margaret's knees buckle.

They break apart and start laughing hysterically. "I made you weak at the knees!"

"You did not!" They start laughing again.

"I was going to ask you to dance, but that was a much better idea."

"I'm full of good ideas. You should come to my tent, we can do dancing there"

"We can?"

"Yes."

"It sounds like a wonderful place."

"Let's go there now."

Klinger had been spared the second half of the gargantuan OR stint because of his guard duty. It's well into the night and nothing unusual has happened. He decides to go on another lap of the camp. He rounds the corner and comes to the centre of the compound and stops dead. There in the middle of the compound is a couple kissing as though their lives depend on it. Not the most appropriate venue, but okay. He gets a little closer and notices that it's Captain Pierce, which is not that unusual. Klinger's eyes then settle on the woman in the equation. No...it can't be...the couple breaks apart and stumble a little "Holy Toledo!" he exclaims and the pair look at him. Major Houlihan and Captain Pierce devouring each other in the middle of camp. Margaret starts giggling loudly and the Hawkeye smiles, giving Klinger a friendly wave before he attempts to shush his partner in crime. This backfires and then they're both laughing.

"Let's sing a song!" He hears Margaret say

"Nah, let's get you to bed." Hawkeye says, leading her away. Whether Hawkeye means alone or together Klinger's not sure, but he must be dreaming, because this is too strange. He has a sudden thought and grins. If he tells Colonel Blake what he just saw with a straight face he might just get his Section 8.

By the time they get to her tent Margaret's starting to flag and Hawkeye's the only thing holding her up. He manages to open her door and pull her inside. He sits her on her bunk and she slumps. Maybe annoying her will wake her up. "Hey, Hot Lips..."

But all she does is pitifully whine "Don't be mean!"

Hawkeye laughs remembering the difference between now and earlier.

"C'mon, lift your cute, little feet up for me."

She lifts her foot up and drops it again right away.

"Fine, lie down." he sighs.

She falls down.

"Close enough." He clumsily removes her boots, accidentally pulling a little harder than he meant to.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, baby." he was pushing his luck on purpose , but no retort comes. When he looks down at her she's smiling with her eyes closed in her sprawled state. He wrestles her blankets out from under her and covers her up. "G'night, Margaret." he says, kissing her on the forehead.

"Whereyougoing?" she mumbles semi coherently, eyes suddenly wide. "I don't wanna be alone, I want someone to cuddle me!" she pouts after uttering a sentence she would only ever have uttered drunk.

Too tired to argue and unwilling to go and wake up Frank, he pulls his boots off and climbs into her bunk, pulling her to him so that her head is on his chest. It helps that he's not completely opposed to the idea, or not opposed at all. "Now go to sleep." He mumbles. He doesn't know what this means or whether she'll hate him by morning, or whether she'll even remember what happened tonight (in which case he'll be dead by morning). He's too tired to care. Her breathing evens out now, and pretty soon his does too.

FIN

 **Sequel has been posted, After After Hours.**


End file.
